


Gemstone Stars

by JLMonroe1234



Series: Michelle Jones & Peter Parker [3]
Category: Spider - Fandom, Spider-Man (Comicverse), Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Medieval, F/M, Hurt Peter Parker, Michelle Jones Needs a Hug, Michelle is a princess, POV Michelle Jones, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Peter Parker is a Mess, Peter is a blacksmith, Precious Peter Parker, Royalty, and her parents are king and queen, this is an abomination but it’s MY abomination, will Peter get powers? I don’t know yet
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-23
Updated: 2020-08-23
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:47:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26061385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JLMonroe1234/pseuds/JLMonroe1234
Summary: His touch was light as a feather, but Michelle could still feel how rough the pads of his fingers were when they grazed her skin. Little scars she hadn’t noticed before littered the backs of his hands and the smooth expanse of his forearms. They were the hands and arms of a man who spent his days playing with fire.“I don’t recall weapon fittings requiring this many measurements,” Michelle said quietly, still watching Peter’s hands hover around her own.Peter looked up at her from beneath dark lashes. Those doe-like brown eyes she thought were so innocent now held a shadow of mischief. “You’ve never been fit for one of my weapons, Your Highness.”
Relationships: Ben Parker & Peter Parker, May Parker (Spider-Man) & Peter Parker, Michelle Jones & Peter Parker, Michelle Jones/Peter Parker, Quentin Beck & Michelle Jones
Series: Michelle Jones & Peter Parker [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1589194
Comments: 22
Kudos: 49





	Gemstone Stars

**Author's Note:**

> The summary is unnecessarily full of sexual tension but there’s literally nothing sexual in this. So I don’t know what happened there. 
> 
> And I have no idea if this will turn into a full length story or if I’ll just leave it alone after this. I just needed to make Peter a blacksmith and it needed to happen NOW.
> 
> One more thing: this story says 1/1 chapters, but that’s only because my computer keeps glitching out and won’t let me mark “this work has multiple chapters.” I really don’t know whether I’m going to continue this or if it will be a one-shot.

Michelle grew up hearing fanciful tales about her country and its people. Most were about the villagers of her own province, Manhattan Isle, the country’s capital and the homeland of the royal family. Her ancestors walked the very same palace halls as she, though the fine Persian rugs scattered throughout showed virtually no signs of age or wear. They were perfectly maintained by a small army of handmaids, just like any other artifact within the castle walls. 

Michelle’s youth had been a blur of sparkling gowns and elegant galas, her most memorable holiday trips being diplomatic meetings in her own country and others. She was a princess, after all, the only child born to the king and queen of Great New York. The weight of her country’s future success was heavy on her shoulders, and her parents knew as much. She spent all seventeen, nearly eighteen, years of her life preparing for the day she’d approach the throne and be crowned in her parents’ place. 

But even despite the facilities available to her, life grew boring. She almost never left castle grounds. She’d exhausted and memorized almost every horseback trail within the woods around the castle. Her personal garden was painstakingly cared for only by her, but still had no petal or pod out of place. She’d become more than proficient in piano, so much so that her tutor had begun writing her new music because she’d mastered all of the pieces in the palace archives. Michelle even tried her hand at sewing, but ultimately gave up after even a metal thimble couldn’t keep her from pricking her thumb with the needle. Besides, Ruella, her seamstress, made such lovely gowns. Who was Michelle to take that job away from her? 

Her last resort had been the castle library. A beautiful room, it was, occupying the entirety of the western turret’s top floor. The ceiling towered above and came to a high point in the middle, murals of gods and deities from civilizations passed painted along the curves. The windows faced south and perfectly framed Manhattan Isle’s bustling middle-city. The castle itself was on Staten Island, a formidable piece of land connected to Manhattan Isle only by a sturdy bridge spanning the width of the Hudson River. Situated atop a hill and anchored to the rocky ground beneath it, the palace viewed the city from above, like a God in the heavens watching over his creation. 

That library window with the city view was Michelle’s favorite spot. She’d situate herself on a gently worn chaise and dig into a good book, usually one of the thousands located in the library’s fiction collection. She’d watch as the day slowly gave way to the darkness of night, watch the barely visible plumes of smoke begin billowing from chimneys on cold evenings. The lamps and torches, while dim on their own but bright in large quantities, would ignite at sundown and set the city ablaze in a beautiful display of glittering light. 

Michelle’s favorite books were the ones which told the stories of common folk. People with simple lives and well-earned possessions. Stories of farmers and cobblers and blacksmiths, all training to become the best versions of themselves. Stories of average people falling in love,  _ true  _ love, and marrying for the sake of a happy life, not for the sake of appeasing a neighboring country or securing a trade deal. Villagers may not have the best homes, the most colorful clothes, the most variety in their meals, but they lived honest lives and did honest work. It was commendable. 

And they were  _ free.  _ Free from the responsibilities of being born with a title, from being a part of a royal family, of always being in the limelight. They got to choose how they lived, who they married, how many children to have. Michelle yearned for such a life. If she could only spend a day in their shoes. Just to have a moment of peace. To take a break from the hustle and bustle of palace life and unlace her corset and truly  _ breathe.  _

Michelle was half way through her favorite novel when Quentin, her schedule keeper, gently knocked on the library door. She knew it was him, as no one else would dare bother her while she read. 

She shifted herself away from the window and the thousands of tiny city lights beyond it to face the door. She marked her place in her book with a thin sheet of copper, carefully engraved with a moon and stars and adorned at the top with a deep blue silk tassel. The place marker was a gift from her grandmother, a kind woman who passed of a sudden and mysterious illness several years prior. She’d kept the place marker with her ever since, using it to fondly recall her lost loved one. 

“You may enter, Quentin.” 

The nobleman carefully opened the door and bowed deeply, the cashmere scarf loosely draped around his neck almost touching the floor. Michelle never liked Quentin very much. She could appreciate a loyal servant, but he always seemed to be trying just a bit too hard. Like everything he did had an ulterior motive. 

“Your Highness. I’m sorry to interrupt, but your father requests your presence in the northeast entryway. The blacksmith is here for your fitting.” 

_ The northeast entryway?  _ Michelle thought this choice of location was peculiar. The northeast entry was only used by castle staff and supply men from middle-city, as it was located at the back of the castle and was inconvenient for most important events. Meetings or guest greetings happening there was unheard of. “Ah, yes. I’d almost forgotten. Give me a moment to make myself presentable, and I’ll be on my way.” 

“I hardly think that’s necessary, Your Highness.” Quentin cleared his throat, looking askance. “The blacksmith did not exactly arrive in his finest attire. What you're wearing should be perfectly fine.” Quentin looked Michelle up and down. “In fact, you might even want to dress down a bit, lest his filth make its way onto that lovely gown.” 

And with that Quentin excused himself, shutting the library door behind him. Michelle listened as the sound of his footsteps faded, waiting until he reached the bottom of the turret’s spiral staircase before daring to take a breath. She’d never liked Quentin, had always thought he was a bit too disrespectful and reckless to serve her father. But he was loyal and hardworking, both traits that are greatly admired by someone of royalty. Aside from helping keep Michelle’s daily activities scheduled and sorted, he acted as her father’s right hand man. 

Michelle couldn’t explain how, but she knew Quentin would turn on her, her father, and the kingdom if it suited him. But she’d never dare say it aloud. 

The fitting with the blacksmith had been planned years in advance. It wasn’t every day that a princess turned eighteen, after all. Michelle wouldn’t be formally crowned and made queen until one or both of her parents passed away, but she would officially be recognized as a future monarch and a person of power within Great New York at sundown on her eighteenth birthday. The ceremony had been a royal tradition for hundreds of years. The event itself began with a complete reading of the country’s constitution, and then was followed by a meticulously planned and coordinated sword-bearing ceremony. The celebrated individual, being Michelle in this case, would be gifted a custom sword by their predecessor as a symbol of goodwill and transference of power. 

Ruella has started on Michelle’s ceremonial gown the second she turned seventeen and had been working on it tirelessly ever since. It was going to be a beautiful piece, a regal getup of magnificent proportions, but would be tremendously heavy and uncomfortable. Michelle was not looking forward to wearing it for an entire day. 

The custom sword, however, required even more careful planning. As an ode to the talents of the kingdom’s people, a castle representative would scour the capital city and find the best blacksmith available. The blacksmith would then make frequent visits to the castle for fittings and meetings and measurements. The metal used to forge the blade, the length of the blade, hilt style, everything would be planned to the tee and based upon the celebrated individual’s preferences. 

This would be Michelle’s first meeting with the blacksmith, and she was more excited than she’d openly admit. She was also curious; why would they make him enter through the northeast entrance when most other chosen blacksmiths were given special treatment? 

Michelle blew out the lamps in the library, leaving a lantern lit to guide her down the western turret’s winding staircase and into the main palace below. Her trek to the northeast entrance took longer than she’d care to admit, and by the time she arrived her hair was slightly frizzed and the foot of her gown had become wrinkled. Internally, she was a mess of nerves and embarrassment over her appearance. 

Though, when she saw the blacksmith, she was no longer focused on her own looks. 

He stood a respectable distance from Quentin, who looked displeased that the two of them were even breathing the same air. He also stood carefully away from the border separating the stone entryway floor and the polished marble of the main room. Apparently, he was aware that his dusty trousers were not welcome within palace walls. 

Michelle almost felt bad for thinking as much, because it was evident that he’d tried to make himself presentable. His light blue shirt, while obviously old and faded to a shade lighter than its original color, was stylish and made of a once-fine material. His trousers, baggy enough for Michelle to realize that he simply didn’t have enough body mass to fill them, were a bit too baggy at the knees where they were tucked into a worn pair of formal brown leather boots. He held beside him a moderately sized rolling trunk, likely filled with ore samples and blade designs and the like. She couldn’t imagine how uncomfortable that must have been to lug through Manhattan Isle, across Shadow Bridge, and all the way around the palace grounds to the back of the castle. It explained the slight sheen of sweat coating the blacksmith’s forehead. 

The second Michelle stopped walking and stood before her schedule keeper and the blacksmith, the smith lowered himself into a surprisingly graceful bow. “Your highness. My name is Peter Parker, nephew of Blacksmith Benjamin Parker. it’s an honor to be serving you. Your ceremonial weapon will be of the utmost importance and my top priority until it’s completion.” 

She waved him out of the bow and managed to smile. She’d been caught off guard by his voice and stature. She’d expected a grown man, a forge-hardened individual with calloused hands and a respectable gait. The smith in front of her was small, maybe even shorter than her, and had cheeks hollowed enough to make it seem as if he hadn’t seen a decent meal in months. But above those cheeks were bright eyes filled with youthful mirth, a true indicator of his age. 

This blacksmith was just a boy, no older than twenty. Maybe even as young as Michelle herself. 

His most attention-catching feature was a rigid, thick scar across the front of his neck. The raised line was slightly darker than the rest of his tanned skin and stretched from ear to ear. It was a bit startling, really, and brought to Michelle’s mind the drawn images of mutilated soldiers she’d seen in the history books in the library. Michelle found herself wanting to look away, but being enthralled by the presence of such a ghoulish trait on such an innocent looking child. 

“I appreciate your dedication,” Michelle said at last, yanking her gaze away from his scar so she could look into his eyes. Molten brown, like the chocolate caramel candies Michelle’s personal chef made so well. “I’m excited to see what you have in mind. How about we find an empty meeting room. We can begin discussing your ideas-“ 

“I hardly think that’s necessary,” Quentin interjected, stepping in front of Peter before he could move toward the marble floor. Peter, obviously surprised and a bit off-balance, stumbled backward a few steps. “Your discussion can take place here.” 

Michelle gently placed a hand on Quentin’s shoulder and squeezed. She was by no means a touchy person, but it seemed like the best way for Quentin to know that she meant business. Sure, Peter was rough around the edges. But him and his uncle had been chosen for the job for a reason. Someone saw their potential. So Michelle would take the same liberty. “No, dear Quentin, I think a meeting room would be far more appropriate. We don’t want anyone overhearing our plans and spoiling the surprise, do we?” 

Quentin’s lips were pinched so tightly they were turning white in the center. He looked like he wanted to explode, to tell Michelle off and insult her with passive comments regarding her intelligence or importance just like he always did, but he kept his mouth shut. 

“Come, Peter, I believe there’s an open room in the east wing. Quentin, you’re free to return to your normal duties. Thank you for fetching me.” 

“Of course, Your Highness. Do send for me if you require anything else.” 

And with that Quentin offered a shallow bow and took off at a brisk pace down the hall. Michelle watched him speed away and turn left, deliberately heading west and therefore away from Peter and Michelle’s future meeting. 

“I apologize for his behavior, Blacksmith. Quentin performs his duties well, but rarely does so with a smile.” 

Peter’s own smile was radiant and true, the spitting image of a boy who didn’t take any part of life for granted. “I didn’t notice, Your Highness.” 

Michelle motioned for Peter to follow her and they took off down the corridor. Her own soft soled slippers, a light shade of cream that matched her silk gown, made no noise as they breezed over the palace floors. In contrast, Peter’s boots slapped against the granite and the sound bounced around the domed ceilings. His rolling trunk clunked and rattled and even released the sharp reverberating sound of metal banging against metal, confirming Michelle’s suspicions that he’d brought along weapons or ore for reference. He didn’t seem to notice that he was disturbing the silence; he was too busy taking in his surroundings like a child on Boxing Day. 

Michelle watched with amusement as Peter’s eyes darted from the intricately carved pillars lining the halls, to the paintings of landscapes and monarchs passed, to the guards stationed at every turn and major doorway. He somehow managed to look in every direction at once without stumbling or losing pace. 

Upon arriving at the meeting room Peter stepped back and bowled slightly, motioning for Michelle to enter first. It was a simple and common act of respect, but it felt different coming from Peter. It was as if he wasn’t just doing it because he had to, because coddling the woman who would one day be his queen was a survival tactic. It seemed as if he genuinely respected her and had a sense of common decency. It was a breath of fresh air. Michelle wasn’t used to being admired within the castle. Just tolerated, because she was the child of the king and queen.

She made her way to the front of the room, where the grandest chair at a perfectly round table sat empty and waiting. It was instinct to go for the best spot in any place; it was her birthright, after all. She’d been taught as much and had never questioned it. But for some reason Peter’s presence was unsettling her, as if she were disrespecting  _ him  _ by choosing the only seat in the room where she could be identified as his superior. It made her feel silly, somehow. 

But for the sake of time and her own sanity, Michelle swallowed her doubts, situated herself in the makeshift throne and swept her hand toward the blacksmith, then the table. “Please, do sit.” 

Peter bowed again and chose a seat two chairs down from her, far enough away to be respectful but close enough that they could have unhindered conversation. 

Michelle cleared her throat. “I’d like to begin by thanking you for coming all this way. I’m sure the journey, especially by foot, was anything but pleasant.” 

“Not a problem, Your Highness. I’d like to thank you as well as your representative for choosing me to forge the weapon. It’s a great honor.” 

“Forgive my ignorance, but which representative found you?” 

“I believe it was Sir Anthony Stark, Your Highness.” 

Anthony Stark, her father’s right-hand man behind Quentin. A smart man, Stark was. He was responsible for the design and construction of most of Great New York’s aqueducts and sewage systems. If a problem needed solving, Stark was the man to contact.

“Right. Well, in any case, you and your uncle will be a great help to the kingdom and to me in particular.” 

Something changed minutely in Peter’s demeanor. Maybe his posture. Maybe the light in his eyes. 

“Have I misspoken?” Michelle asked innocently. 

Peter visibly refocused himself and realized he’d been  _ frowning  _ at the princess. He went from calm and polite to anxious in a matter of seconds. “No! Absolutely not, Your Highness. My apologies. I was simply recalling...a difficult memory.” 

Michelle, in a rare show of genuine curiosity and at the expense of her perfect posture, leaned forward in her chair. “A penny for your thoughts?” 

When she saw how Peter’s shoulders rolled in slightly, Michelle regretted ever speaking. Whatever he was thinking about was clearly unpleasant, but she knew that because she asked, Peter was now honor bound to tell her about it. She felt cruel. The thoughts of others were not hers for the taking. 

“My uncle, Benjamin. He passed away of Blue Fever late last year. He was the one who ran our shop, but I’ve been apprenticing under him since I was a boy and have taken over his responsibilities.” 

Michelle only blinked, trying to process Peter’s words.  _ Blue Fever?  _ She’d never heard of such an illness. Surely there wasn’t another plague going around? Great New York hadn’t seen such a sickness for hundreds of years. If something new was spreading and had been killing her subjects, she would have been told. Right? 

“I figure that my shop was chosen mainly because of my uncle. His reputation does precede him. But not many know of his passing. So if I am not what you expected and you believe my talents will not equal his, please find another man to forge your weapon. I will understand completely.” 

Michelle had no say in which blacksmith was chosen or why, so she didn’t know whether Peter’s uncle was the reason for the Parker family’s selection. But she trusted Anthony Stark, and she trusted her own gut. Peter could do the job. “Well, do  _ you  _ think your talents equal his? Do you believe you're capable of the task at hand?” 

Peter breathed deeply, scratched at his chin. “Yes, your highness, I believe I am.” 

“Then that’s all I need to know. Let’s proceed with this meeting, shall we?” 

“Yes, yes of course. Let me pull out my notes.” Peter snapped the buckles on his trunk open and carefully folded the lid back. Michelle noted small, shiny text reading  _ Property of B. Parker  _ pressed into the metal above the trunk handle. 

Peter gathered several pieces of parchment and laid them out carefully on the table to face Michelle. “I’ve gone ahead and sketched out some ideas, but anything you don’t find adequate can be altered or scrapped immediately. I’d like to go through and explain each one, if that’s alright.” 

“Please, do.” 

Peter slid the first piece of parchment forward. Meticulously drawn and shaded in charcoal was a classic shortsword, a style Great New York often used in ceremonies and for decorative purposes. The hilt was tubular and octagonal, capped at the bottom with a perfectly circular piece of stone- granite, quartz, jade, whatever she decided would look best. 

“This one is the most simple of the lot, with a geometric hilt and simple stone ornament.” Peter suddenly turned from his artwork to Michelle and let his eyes scan her from the top of her tiara to the toes of her shoes. The look was nothing but analytical; he was measuring her. But the intensity of his gaze made Michelle want to squirm. “My best estimate for blade length would be forty eight centimeters, but I’d need to take more accurate measurements to be sure.” 

He reached behind him and with no pretense whatsoever, pulled a dagger out of his trunk. 

The guard stationed by the doorway to the meeting room shot forward instantly, but Michelle stopped him with a palm in the air and waved him away. Peter didn’t even seem to notice. 

_ It’s fine,  _ she mouthed carefully. 

The guard stepped back, but kept a wary eye on the blacksmith. 

The dagger Peter pulled out of the chest was an exact replica of the sword in his drawing, simply sized down. “This is so you can get a general idea of the final result. This is only a rough copy, of course. Plus, the metal type and adorning stone piece can be switched out.” 

Michelle eyed the dagger, then the drawing. “I’m not a huge fan of this particular style. It’s a bit boring.” 

Peter nodded. “I’m inclined to agree. “ The dagger and drawing went back into his chest. Next up was an elegant saber with an jewel encrusted hilt. The accompanying dagger for this one, Michelle noted, was absent the curved blade of an actual saber, and had small divots in the metal of the hilt where the gems would be set. 

Michelle ran her finger carefully over one of the empty ridges and Peter laughed sheepishly. “My apologies for the inaccurate example. Curving the blade of a dagger and using actual gems for an example piece seemed frivolous.” 

“It does, doesn’t it?” Michelle took one last look at the drawing. “I’m not sure this one’s for me, either. The gems are a bit much.” 

“Sure, sure. We’ll move onto the next one, then.” 

They spent the better part of an hour that way, Peter showing Michelle his surprisingly detailed drawings and their real life counterparts. Each weapon, despite being a simple example of what could be, was obviously forged with precision and care. Every dagger was balanced perfectly. None of the hilts felt too bulky or too small within Michelle’s palm. 

“What about a dagger?” Michelle asked as Peter was pulling out another drawing. 

“You want a dagger instead of a sword?” 

Michelle shrugged. “I mean, why not?” 

Peter cleared his throat, not sure what to do with the new suggestion. “I was under the impression that only swords were used in this type of ceremony.” 

“That is correct. Only swords have ever been used. But who’s to say something different isn’t allowed? And each weapon is meant to reflect its wielder, is it not? I think I’d be better suited to a dagger than a sword.” 

Daggers, while not the most intimidating of weapons, required skill and prowess to wield. They were most effective in close combat. Not entirely useless against swords, but really only effective if the combatant in possession was bold enough to attack with such a short blade. 

But Michelle liked to think of herself in that regard. Precise, but bold. Sure in herself and her abilities. Not intimidating at first glance, but sharp up close. 

A dagger was the right fit. She was sure of it. 

Peter must have seen the decision on her face, because he smiled with the corner of his mouth and nodded. “A dagger it is, then. Do you have any ideas as far as style goes? We could always pull inspiration from my drawings or start from scratch. It’s completely up to you, Your Highness.” 

“What about the gladius?” 

Peter dug through his parchment stack for the weapon in question, glancing at it quickly before setting it and its accompanying example dagger before Michelle. “Ah. This one was one of my favorites.” 

Historically, the gladius was an uninteresting piece, the common weapon of any Roman foot soldier. But Peter’s artistic talents and unique design elements elevated it to something more. 

His drawing put emphasis on a very specific theme for the piece; the Heavens. The hilt was perfectly cylindrical with two glass quillons near the top and bottom, which would be perfectly spaced to fit Michelle’s hand. The grip would be smooth and polished around the finger grooves, with the tiniest of deep blue and clear gemstones scattered throughout. Just enough decoration to look regal, beautiful, but not enough to be gaudy. Ironically, the stones were the same shade as her ceremony gown, so the pairing was perfect. 

Michelle’s favorite part was the blade. Accurate depictions of constellations were imprinted on each side, scattered across the blade’s face. They were quill-point thin, only identifiable if you looked closely. But they were beautiful in their simplicity, a starry night sky immortalized in what would be silver-coated steel. 

“I don’t think the dagger blade will be big enough for all of the constellations,” Peter said, turning the parchment every which way to look at his design from all angles. “If we want them to be big enough to see, we could probably only do one on each side. You can choose any two you’d like.” 

“Hm. I’m not sure. Forgive me, but it’s been a while since I’ve consulted my star charts. Do you have any recommendations?” 

The sudden flush of Peter’s cheeks satisfied Michelle to no end. Having the power to fluster men at any given moment was a trait she did not take for granted. “Uh, sure! Yes, of course. Some of my personal favorites are Columba-“ Peter pointed to a simple, well-structured constellation near the gladius tip, “and Virgo.” Virgo was a bit more complicated, it’s base being something close to the shape of a box with four different pieces branching out from each corner. “My aunt always told me that Columba translates to ‘Noah’s Dove’, the bird that alerted Noah when God’s great flood was receding. I guess it’s sort of a symbol of forgiveness and good will.” 

Peter’s knowledge was a pleasant surprise, as well as a welcome sign that he put care and consideration into his work. This particular design likely held importance for Peter, which made it even better. When craftsmen enjoyed a task they were given, the end result was always spectacular. 

“And Virgo roughly translates from Latin to mean ‘virgin’-“

Michelle’s eyebrows rose so quickly that she thought they might fly off her forehead. “ _ Excuse me?”  _

Peter’s eyes widened drastically. “But-but the constellation itself is meant to represent Dike, daughter of Zeus and Greek goddess of justice.” 

Coming down from her spike of indignation, Michelle considered the implications of Peter’s choices. “I think I like those. A ruler who offers kindness and second chances, but delivers justice when it’s deserved.” Two distinct sides of a strong, regal blade. “Yes, let’s go with those.” 

“Fantastic. Are the gemstone colors I chose to your satisfaction?” 

“Actually, they’re perfect. An identical match to my gown.” 

“Is that so?” 

“Almost the exact same shade. You have a keen intuition, Mr.Parker.” Michelle took one more look at Peter’s drawing. The dagger would be an exquisite thing, but she didn’t want it’s beauty to be mistaken for weakness. “Could we make the quillons metal instead of glass?” 

”Of course. Might I ask why?” 

“Glass quillons would shatter the second the dagger took any impact.” 

“Sure, but I figured they’d be stylistically smart since glass would pair well with the clear gems-“

“Despite any previous misconceptions you may have, Blacksmith Parker, I do care about the functionality of the piece.” 

“Fair enough, Your Highness. The quillons will be metal.” 

Michelle clapped with false enthusiasm. “Wonderful. Aren’t you just  _ so  _ accommodating?” 

Peter was quick to pick up on her sarcasm and played along accordingly. “I am indeed. Any woman in need of a weapon would be lucky to have me.” 

“Oh, yes. I’m just swooning over your knife collection.” 

Peter’s following laugh was genuine and wide-mouthed. He looked terrifically childlike in that moment, nothing like a boy who had to sacrifice his youth to take over the family business. The scar on his neck stretched around his Adam’s apple as it bobbed. “I do try my best.” He stacked his parchment and tucked it carefully back into his trunk, then wrapped up the sample dagger in a linen cloth and tucked it away as well. “Now we just need measurements, and I can get out of your hair and get to work.” 

Peter pulled a wooden ruler from his trunk and stood. He was out of his chair and moving toward Michelle before he realized his mistake. “Forgive me, Your Highness. I forget myself. May I approach?” 

“Of course, Peter. I have a feeling we’ll be seeing a lot of each other in the coming months. You don’t need to ask.” 

Michelle met him halfway between her own seat and his and stood tall, offering her hand. “Go right ahead.” 

She watched as Peter carefully positioned the ruler within her palm, then asked her to curl her fingers around the wood. He darted to the table, marked something down with a quill and ink on one of his extra pieces of parchment, and came back to her hand. 

He measured the length of her fingers, the distance from the tip of her thumb to the tip of her pinky, from the base of her wrist to the end of the middle finger. His touch was light as a feather, but Michelle could still feel how rough the pads of his fingers were when they grazed her skin. Little scars she hadn’t noticed before littered the backs of his hands and the smooth expanse of his forearms. They were the hands and arms of a man who spent his days playing with fire. 

“I don’t recall weapon fittings requiring this many measurements,” Michelle said quietly, still watching Peter’s hands hover around her own. 

Peter looked up at her from beneath dark lashes. Those doe-like brown eyes she thought were so innocent now held a shadow of mischief. “You’ve never been fit for one of  _ my  _ weapons, Your Highness.” 

He was finished gathering his data all too soon, and Michelle waited patiently for him to pack up his supplies. “No, I guess I haven’t.” 

Once his trunk was buckled and secured, the two of them walked out of the meeting room. Michelle walked several steps before realizing Peter had stopped directly outside the doorway.

“Wouldn’t you like to go home, Mr.Parker?” 

“Did I not enter the castle from this direction?” Peter shoved a thumb over his shoulder in the general direction of the northeast entrance. 

Michelle rolled her eyes and walked back to him, standing on the side opposite his rolling trunk and linking her arm through his own. The tips of Peter’s ears went visibly red beneath his curly hair. He looked like he might faint. 

Michelle felt the same way. Why was she acting like this? So open and comfortable with a stranger? It was against everything she’d been taught, was against her very nature.  _ You needn’t look so desperate, Michelle. _

But she didn’t remove her arm. Just squeezed the lower part of Peter’s bicep in the crook of her elbow to spur him into action. “I’ll be taking you out the south entrance.” 

“But what about-“

“Quentin can get over it. I’m the princess, am I not? He answers to  _ me.”  _

Peter chuckled nervously. “I guess that’s true.” 

The guard stationed outside the meeting room door cleared his throat, but said nothing. Michelle thought she might have seen him smile. 

Michelle and Peter walked through the halls without a word, Peter’s trunk making enough noise for the both of them. Did he not ever think to oil the wheels? 

The northeast entrance was elegant in its own way, as every space within the castle was, but the south entrance was an entity all its own. Two grand staircases ran up the walls on both sides and led to the second floor. Each case was lined with crystal handrails that refracted sunlight from long, rectangular windows near the ceiling, sending miniature rainbows glittering about the room. 

The floor was solid black granite to make up for the onslaught of light coming from the upper part of the room. The two contrasted beautifully, each making up for the traits the other lacked. Glass statues of Roman and Grecian gods, past rulers, and renowned historians and philosophers were spaced strategically along the edges of the room and stopped a few feet away from the front doors. Two stoic guards stood in the empty space on either side, faces blank and uniforms crisp. 

These doors in particular were Michelle’s favorite doors in the entire palace. Tall, wooden, rounded at the top, and adorned by some of the most intricate stained glass pieces Michelle had ever seen. (She had visited many palaces and castles beside her own, and had yet to find anything that compared). 

The doors contrasted just like the stairs and the floor, the left one depicting a sunny day in bright shades of blue and yellow. The right door was a clear night sky, deep blue glass setting the backdrop with bright yellow stars scattered throughout. Both doors were pieces of art and breathtaking in their own right, but complemented each other beautifully. 

Peter let out an audible gasp as they passed under the spot where the staircases joined in the middle of the room. “I feel like if I take another step, some higher power is going to smite me on the spot.”

“That’s the goal. These are the doors we use for foreign ambassadors and royals visiting from other countries.” 

“And you’re letting  _ me  _ step through them?” 

Michelle used the arm not linked with Peter’s to motion to the guards. They stepped forward, unlocked the doors, and opened both of them in sync. 

Michelle had expected sunlight to stream through the cracks. She did  _ not  _ expect to see dark storm clouds rolling in above, the distinct sound of thunder crashing in behind them. There was no rain at the moment, but the air was heavy with the scent and feel of an incoming storm. 

“Oh, dear. That looks unpleasant.” 

Peter sighed. “Yes, it does indeed. Pardon me, but I really should be going. I think it would serve me well to beat that storm.” 

Peter carefully unhooked his arm from Michelle’s and moved to stand before her, offering a final bow. She immediately missed the warmth of him at her side. The longing for a firm presence beside her was a foreign feeling. She didn’t quite know what to do with it. “It’s been an honor, Your Highness. Thank you for your hospitality. Please send for me if you require anything before our next meeting.” 

“Will do. Safe travels home, Blacksmith Parker.” 

Peter grabbed the handle of his trunk, nodded at each of the guards in turn, and stepped outside. The guards moved, and the doors began closing behind him. 

Just as Peter stepped off the front staircase and onto the walking path that would take him back to middle-city, the heavens opened their floodgates and rain began falling in heavy sheets. 

Michelle’s heart hurt for him. He was journeying home during the day; there would be no stars in the sky, and therefore no Columba constellation to reassure him of incoming redemption. Noah’s dove was nowhere to be found, and though the onslaught outside was not of biblical proportions, Peter was at the mercy of the flood. 

**Author's Note:**

> Great New York’s geographic layout isn’t based upon New York City’s. And I must admit, I don’t really care if any of my details are historically inaccurate. This was a fun fluff piece and it allowed me to put Michelle in a dress and Peter in knee-high boots, so I’m pretty proud of myself.


End file.
